Page 41 of Twice Upon a Midnight

Martin’s wrinkled face softened, and he repeated quietly, “Aye, lad.”

Then he left, and Spenser sank back into a deep sleep, this time not bothering to lie down completely first.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

M

artin strode along Pall Mall toward St James Street, his old legs sauntering as quickly as they could go. Well, perhapsnotas quickly as they could. They were old and arthritic after all, but otherwise in fine shape for a man his age. And it was too nice a day to waste money on a hackney or hurry along when the sunlight falling through the trees cast a pretty dappled light onto the street. Besides, the longer he was away, the more time the lad had to sleep and heal, which he certainly needed. Nurse O’Connor was there in the house with him should he need anything.

Thank the sweet Lord that Spenser was doing well. Martin had thought he was dead when he came upon him that morning, lying crumpled on the footpath and pulped to a bloody mess, and more than once since then, he feared death might just take him after all. Martin hadn’t offered up a serious prayer in years, but during the past few days he’d offered nearly a dozen to whoever in heaven might listen. Now he had to remember what all he’d promised God in exchange for sparing the man who had become more than a mere friend. Spenser had become the son he no longer had.

He’d always wanted to repay Spenser for saving him from the footpad who had nearly killed him. He just never thought their situations would prove so damnably similar.

He tightly clutched the book Spenser had asked him to deliver as he turned up St James Street and passed the row of grand houses lining Green Park. Miniature palaces, the lot of them, with fancy gates and courtyards in front and grand mews and gardens in back—some even had big gas lamps standing at the wrought iron gates and hanging over the porticos. And what did any of those men do to deserve to own houses like that?

“Not work, that’s certain.” He snorted in disgust. “None work as hard as most of the men in London. Certainly not as hard as Spenser.”

He shot the Palladian edifices a scoffing sneer as he passed in his well-worn boots and old coat.Threadbare, Spenser had called the misshaped thing and offered to buy him a new one. But Martin always refused. Didn’t need a new coat. Preferred the one he already had. It was comfortable, and old age had taught him the benefits of comfort over fashion and the joy of possessing only what mattered.

He glanced down at the book, then blew out a hard breath and slowed his steps even more. “Tell her to read sonnet one-sixteen,” he muttered to himself. “Tell her to read a bloody sonnet instead of offering courtship, marriage, a future of happiness…”

The hell he would.

Oh, he would give her the book all right, explain it was a gift from Spenser…Spenser Rhodes, stepson of the Duke of Pensworth and the natural son of a war hero who had died saving the world from a dictator and his men from a French cavalry charge. A man who had dedicated long hours every day to making the most of his school education, then even more from his work’s education. A man whose determination had taken him to the top of his field and put him in position to become an even more successful merchant. A man with good character, a pure soul, and a heart of gold. Any woman should count her lucky stars to have the love of a man like him.Especiallythe daughter of a duke.

Martin planned on doing far more than simply delivering a book and a message. He would sit Lady Elenora down in her fancy drawing room and not leave until she knew everything. Spenser deserved that.

The lad just didn’t know it yet.

Martin stopped in front of the grand house the Duke of Durham had leased for the season and stared up at its wide front through the tall wrought iron fence. A façade designed to look like a Grecian temple overlooked a sunken garden behind and the park beyond that, all crafted from gleaming white stone and stucco.

The front door opened, and a smartly dressed butler stepped aside to let a couple pass onto the Corinthian-styled portico, with a maid scurrying behind. The man wore a tall beaver hat low on his head that hid his face, and the woman was safely tucked behind the wide brim of a straw bonnet. They walked arm-in-arm, although the gentleman leaned in far more than the lady, and Martin could just see the man’s amused smile as they came down the steps. An expensive red phaeton with a pair of oversized swan-neck springs at the rear, its body mounted daringly high, waited in the gravel forecourt. Its team of perfectly matched horses were held by a young groom.

The man helped the young woman onto the front seat and left the poor maid to scramble onto the rear bench by herself, but the lady turned to inquire if her maid was comfortable.Ella.Martin recognized her at once. Her pretty face, chestnut hair, and bright green eyes were exactly as Spenser had described. So was her kindness.

When the gentleman circled the rear of the rig and jumped onto his seat to take the reins, Martin saw his face and knew—

Simon Radcliff. Spenser’s half brother.

Bloody Christ.

The young groom darted out of the way as Simon flipped the ribbons and set the team off, the horses tossing their heads and prancing in anticipation of racing. Lady Elenora gripped the bar on the side of her seat with one hand and placed the other over her bonnet. Simon laughed as the team sped out of the courtyard and into the wide street, turning south toward Pall Mall and the park entrance.

Martin watched until the rig was out of sight, then he stepped into the courtyard and called out to the groom. The young man saw him and jogged over.

The groom nodded at Martin. “What can I do fer ya?”

“Was that the duke’s daughter I just saw riding off with the Marquess of Walmesley?”

“Aye!” The boy grinned. “Sure a pretty rig, ain’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” Martin frowned down at the book in his hand. The marquess’s visit here couldn’t be good news.

The groom spat on the ground. “He’ll be coming ‘round more often now, I suspect,” he grumbled. “Bet the bloke still don’t toss me any coins, though. Tight-fisted to a fault, that one.”

Martin slid him a look. “And why would the marquess be coming around more often?”

“He’s courting Lady Elenora.” The groom didn’t seem at all happy about that.